Wildheart
by CalenBee
Summary: Lancelot discovers a strange woman in the woods, as the refugees make camp from the Honorius estate. But little do the knights know, she holds a secret that could change the fates of all. PLEASE REVIEW! Not sure on the OC pairing just yet!
1. Stranger in the Woods

A new story!! I am working on the others but my mind is so indecisive! :) Once again I update only if people review! 

Wildheart

_The place was as terrible as Death – nothing survived and nothing lingered._

_ No breath of wind would assure her mind that life still had the strength to remain. __Carnage swarmed around her like a noose._

_These d__reams rushed through her body like horses. She had to escape, run – hide – anything!_

_Anything to escape … him. Anything. _

_-----------------------------_

The camp had settled from travelling from Marius's estate and Lancelot eyed the woods longingly. His stomach was screaming for food, and he wished to be alone and hunt a wholesome deer or rabbit.

But he also needed to think.

Casting the camp a look, he got his bow and walked into the woods.

The atmosphere was quiet and ethearel – as if the frost had frozen time itself. The only noise were his feet, crunching upon the young snow.

Until he heard a noise, that did not belong to him or any other animal. It sounded human. He glanced to the side, and saw a black mass moving ahead. It _was _a person. He clenched his hand on his bow, and Lancelot hid behind a tree.

I'm being followed, he thought grumpily, leaning his head wearily against the trunk, do Marius' soldiers ever give up? He risked a peek and saw a hunched figure limp slowly through the snow. He leant forwards and detected they were no soldier - their figure was slighter. However as he put his bow down, he stumbled and fell in sight of the person. They stopped.

For a few seconds they simply stared at him, till they unsheathed a dagger from a leather belt. Moonlight fell on their face and Lancelot blinked: it was a woman.

Without thinking, he walked slowly towards her and raised his arms to show he was unarmed. As he came closer, her regarded the woman's apparence: she had long honey hair that streamed down her back and she gazed reproachfully at him through a set of deep brown eyes, that stood out like pin-pricks on her pale face. Her clothes were poor: a thin brown cloak covered her back and threadbare tunic was held together with a thick belt, where a small scabbard was hung.

Lancelot felt no danger, but before he coudl speak, the woman gave a gasp of pain. Before she hit the floor, Lancelot rushed forth and steadied her. But she flinched at his touch, and accidentally cut his arm with the dagger in her hand.

Stunned for a moment, both Lancelot and the girl surveyed the deep cut; blood seeped into his armour, and stained the snow crimson. He merely shrugged and helped her up. But in doing so, he noticed strange bandages wound on her legs and beneath her chest.

Gods! he thought, faintly startled. But he caught her glance and looked away.

"I can help you if you come with me" Lancelot nodded to the trees ahead where the camp was set.

The woman did not repl. She squinted up at him.

"You will die out here." He said to her.

"How do you know I will not die _with _you?" she rasped, eyes gleaming with mistrust.

Lancelot sighed. "I mean you no harm, girl" he said delicately. "You're hurt. I am at a camp ahead and there you will be safe. Do you trust me?"

"Either I die out here or go with you ..." the girl mumbled.

Reluctantly, she let him lead her to this camp where there was food and water.

The arrival came as Lancelot predicted, full of surprised and shocked faces as he dragged her limp form through the comfortable camp. He gained suspicious looks from the refugees and from his fellow knights.

"An who is this?"

Bors dismounted his horse and strode over to Lancelot and the girl, frowning. He looked at her suspicously but his hard complexion softened as she gazed sadly back at him with her strong brown eyes and white face.

"I do not know, Bors" said Lancelot heavily. "But she is injured and needs help. Where is Arthur?"

Bors rolled his eyes.

"Prayin'" he said resentfully, "he's in the tent with Dag-"

"No I'm not, I'm here. What is going on?"

Arthur appeared like a ghost behind Bors and he turned round quickly.

"Oh …" he said disjointedly "Well … Lancelot 'ere has come back with a … pick me up."

Lancelot frowned. _"No,"_ he said, glaring at Bors' insensitivity. "This girl is injured, I found her in the woods," his voice became more urgent as he felt the weight of the girl grow stronger on his body, "she is weak .... and not an ambush I made sure of that."

"She looks like a Saxon," muttered Bors suspiciously, "with that hair. Looks like wheat."

"_Please, _Arthur," said Lancelot, ignoring Bors, "we need to help her."

Arthur looked sadly at the girl's sagging figure and nodded, he strode over and helped her other arm and they both walked her to the medical tent.

As Arthur lay her down the girl, she looked apologetically at Lancelot and then at his cut arm. She shakily touched it and said hoarsely, "sorry." She smiled weakly at him and he returned it faintly. But then, her eyes rolled back into her head and she collapsed.

"Don't worry," said Arthur to Lancelot who gazed at her with a flicker of worry, "she's just resting, she'll come round. Dagonet will see to her."

Lancelot nodded, and with a last nod, turned on his heel and sat beside an abandoned fire.


	2. Old Wounds

Sorry for the wait guys! This one'z a bit longer and ive had some help with a beta. Pls review! 

Chapter Two 

The girl felt something cold on her cheek. It was icy, and too sudden for her liking. She tried to move but her limbs felt as heavy as lead. She wanted to jump and run, hide away, but all she could muster was weakly mumble her protest.

"No …"

"I have to do this," another voice said softly.

"_No …" _

She opened her eyes and came face to face with a tall man. His large stature was quite alarming at first but his face held no trace of menace.

"Welcome back," he grinned, "I need you to lie still whilst I wipe your head. You're burning up."

"Wha - ?" the girl said dumbly, watching as the man dabbed her forehead with a cloth. She suddenly realised that fresh bandages were tied beneath her tunic and her cloak lay on a hook above her head. She realised she was tucked warmly beneath layers of blankets and inside a small wagon.

"Who did my bandages?" she asked feebly. The man sensed her alarm. He smiled understandingly.

"Fulcinia, Marius' wife," he said, "You've been asleep for 3 hours, but have come up with a fever. How are you feeling?"

The girl smiled dryly. "Dead."

She sighed and looked at the wall of the wagon.

The tall man was still observing her. She glanced up at him and frowned slightly.

"What?"

"You have a name, girl?" he said to her, "My comrade, Lancelot found you in the woods."

The girl suddenly felt her cheeks go pink. "Torne. Yours?"

"Dagonet," he said gently. He paused for a moment, and his eyes discreetly eyed her chest, a strange glimmer reflecting in them. He caught site of Torne watching him closely, and he looked away. His face was very similar to the other man's, Lancelot when he rescued her in the woods.

"Is there something you want to say?" she said quietly, each word bordering suspicion.

"I –" the giant man faltered.

"Yes?"

For a moment, Dagonet stood and moistened his upper lip in thought, but then shook his head.

"Nay, girl" he said. "I will let Arthur know you have awoken. Take some rest."

Torne watched him take his hasty leave. When he had bowed himself out the wagon, she unconsciously pulled her blankets up to her neck, obscuring her bandaged chest out of sight. She guessed what bothered him – he had seen what lay beneath the strips of cloth. Marks that should not be seen on any creature's body. But surely, he could withstand that the cruelty of men was of the norm in these times? He looked a warrior, used to bloodshed and mutilation.

Oh well, even though she had no idea who she was with, they were helping her and for now, that was good enough.

- - - - -

"_Jump, Torne …" _

"_I won't."_

"_Do it. Would you defy the gods?"_

"_This is not their way."_

"_Only a heathen speaks of such things. Jump, or be burnt."_

_A large rock … protruding above a lake …hundreds of feet down to a rocky and icy grave … Torne stood at the edge of it, unrobed and naked at the brink of it's crude tip. Wind whipped at her golden hair, and her lily white skin was a pallid yellow. Behind her, five men stood, hooded and cloaked. One stepped forth … _

"_JUMP!"_

"NO!"

Torne bolted up and banged her head on a person's arm. Fleetingly, she glimpsed a tall woman, as the bowl she was holding crashed to the floor. A small boy's head appeared, and began to hoarsely exclaim a ghost had entered the wagon.

"Hush, Lucan!" hissed the woman. The boy called Lucan silenced. She turned to Torne, who was breathing deeply. The dream had been so real …

"Torne, lay down," instructed the woman. She had a soft but authoritative voice. Torne sank back down, shaking all over and accepting the drink from the woman.

"You know my name," she murmured, "Dagonet, told you?"

The woman smiled slightly. "Yes, I am Fulcinia, and I bid you get some sleep."

Sleep … the one place that she had just been, the one place where her nightmares of the past lingered.

"I cannot," said Torne forcefully, "I wish to go outside."

She glanced up at Fulcinia – the woman had a carved quality to her face, with kindly dark eyes, very much like her own. She shook her head.

"You will die of cold, you fool," she said, pulling the woollen blankets up to Torne's chin. But she felt suffocated. She needed space to breath. Ignoring the fact that she was causing offence, Torne gathered the woollen shawls around her white shoulders and slipped into her dog-eared sandals. Slowly, she stood on her feet and looked up into Fulcinia's deeply disapproving face. T

"I am well enough to stand," said Torne with a smile.

Fulcinia rolled her eyes.

"_Don't_ wander far," she said, turning her attention to Lucan, who had started to sing. "I may not be your mother, but Arthur will have my head if you fall ill again."

Torne nodded and descended out of the carriage. She looked rather funny with the giant shawls of wool on fur surmounted highly on her shoulders. The wind was icy but groups of people sat around fires, roasting conies and absorbed in conversation.

She sat at an ailing fire, just outside the camp and lazily piled wood on top of it. The heat warmed her feet as the flames rose.

"Hello pretty maiden. You are that stranger girl?"

Torne turned and saw an unfamiliar man behind her. He was swathed in a thick brown cloak, with a strange helmet on his head. His skin was swarthier than the others, and he looked at her with wicked blue eyes.

Torne looked away from him, praying he would disappear. She didn't like his presence.

"Well?"

She didn't answer.

"Answer me, bitch!"

He swooped down and suddenly grabbed her throat, pinning her to the ground. She felt him hitch up her tunic as he started to straddle her.

"No-one to hear you scream!"

He clamped one hairy hand to Torne's mouth, and she stared terrified at the camp. Not one figure had moved. Desperate to escape him, she managed to sink her teeth into the hilt of his hand. The soldier screamed with agony, and Torne seized the chance to bite his cheek. Blood poured from the wound, dripping onto her own face.

"SLUT!" he screamed, sitting up and striking her. He then bent down and started licking her neck; his hands travelling down her chest –

_THUNK._

Next thing Torne knew, the soldier was been flung off her and there was a sound of a scream, then a thud. She looked up and saw the curly-haired form of Lancelot, standing above her.

He crouched down at her side.

"Are you hurt?"

Torne sat up shakily, and saw the body of the swarthy soldier lying dead on the floor.

She shook her head, unaware that other people were striding over to where she sat beside Lancelot, pulling on the woollen shawls. Their many heads obscured the distant fires, their murmurings like the sound of angry hornets.

"What is going on?"

Arthur appeared, sword drawn and angry. Lancelot stood, his face equally as furious as his friend's.

"That scum," he said, in a voice of cold fury, pointing at the dead soldier, "_paid _for what he did."

Arthur glanced at the soldier and then at Torne who was crouched pitifully on the ground, silent tears sliding down her face.

After some silence, Arthur spoke. "The same applies to the rest of you," he glared at the congregation, "I have had enough of people taking what is not there's." He turned on his heel, back to camp with the rest of his Knights. The few villagers that had gathered also dispersed from the scene, talking frantically about what they had witnessed.

All that remained was Torne, sobbing in the snow. Lancelot bent down and helped her up.

"What are you doing out here?" he said to her, almost crossly, brushing away blood from her cheek. Torne flushed furiously.

"For some fresh air," she mumbled.

"You got more than fresh air," said Lancelot, shaking her arms and forcing her to look at him. "Why did you not listen to, Dagonet?"

"I cannot go back to my bed, I have slept and rested, Lancelot!" said Torne defiantly, covering her chest as a gust of wind lifted up an untied bandage. Lancelot fleetingly saw a long, deep gash. Torne, whose temper was starting to simmer, glared up at him.

"They're old wounds," she snapped.

"I would think so," he said heatedly. He released her. "Now, go back to the wagon!"

Torne felt too emotionally drained to argue back. She knew he was only trying to protect her, but after an attempted rape and the feverish state she was in, the last thing she needed was to be felt like a misbehaved child.

She shot him a nasty look and stalked away.


	3. Wandering

Sorry its been a while! Hope you all had a nice Easter! Enjoy this latest installment and Please review, people!

Chapter Three

Frustrated, tired, and humiliated: Torne said nothing when she arrived back at the wagon. Refusing a goblet of water from Fulcinia, she nestled down in her bed and stared at the wooden wall. Her head ached and sleep took hours to come.

* * *

"Wise of you to kill that cur," mumbled Bors, eating a chicken leg. "I'm jealous."

Lancelot grunted. "I wonder what Marius' other soldiers are going to do." He glanced to his left, where at the nearest fire, a group of Marius' soldiers sat muttering. They caught the Sarmatian's dark eye and glared.

Bors snorted and chucked the bone. "They won't dare do anything under Arthur's nose."

Lancelot raised his dark eyebrows. "I don't know, Bors. You haven't seen what their capable of."

He knew he wasn't just referring to Torne's near rape – the awful dungeon chained with Woads, at the Honorius estate was still a nightmare.

"Aye, well, they're a funny lot," Bors said. "That's the first time I saw you kill for a woman."

"Meaning?"

Bors chuckled to himself, eating more chicken.

"Don't be stupid. She's no brute."

"Don't let Vanora hear you say that." Lancelot eyed his comrade with faint amusement. "Unless, Torne's children end up looking like you, god save the bastards."

Bors nearly choked on his chicken bone.

"You're an idiot" he growled. "Vanora would never have you."

Lancelot smiled to himself. "Yes, of course."

"Mm."

Bors lay himself down on the ground and breathed deeply, taking in the smell of woodsmoke and chicken. Lots of thoughts crept up in his mind, his anger at the Romans fading … "Wonder why Torne left the wagon, Lancelot? She's not exactly well, is she? Unless Dag's losing his touch."

"S'not Dag's fault," Lancelot replied wearily, glancing at Bors' legs. "Torne chose to leave. Said she wanted some 'fresh air.'"

Bors' portly form twitched with laughter. "Got more than that, didn't she?"

"I told her she was foolish," said Lancelot roughly, resting his tired head on his hands. "She has too much spirit. I have no idea where she's from either. Just met her in the woods, wounded …and – and I could not interrogate her for information because of the state she was in. And checking for an ambush would have wasted time, don't you agree, Bors. Bors?"

Lancelot leaned backwards so he could see his friend's face, glowing orange from the firelight. The man had gone to sleep.

* * *

Torne lay as the night crept on, her face shining palely from the weak moonlight seeping through cracks in the cart. Unconsciously, she fingered the half-healed wounds beneath her chest; Fulcinia … Dagonet … they had both seen what unholy marks lay on her skin …

A knife-sharp memory flashed through her mind _…. A hot blazing dagger, held high in the waning sun … its holder, masked and cloaked save slits for eyeholes … agony beyond agony … flesh began to melt, peel away …_

"_That's what happens to traitors …" _

She had screamed dementedly … like a trapped boar with no way out.

Torne began to shiver as she plunged back to the present, and she wept silently into her blankets. No human should have gone through that. Not one.

But they had no idea she was here ... no, they didn't.

* * *

As the journey through the hills progressed, Torne chose to stick to the solitude of the cart. She cared not if she seemed rude to be so silent; her only trust lay in beady-eyed Fulcinia, who said nothing as she changed Torne's bandages across her upper torso. Yet each time, Torne saw the horror reflect on her face. And as soon as this procedure had ended, Fulcinia would quickly turn away.

However, as the camp stopped for the night under another large clearing, Fulcinia sought her out.

"Come, Torne," she said briskly, "We must get you washed."

Feeling a thrill of dread of being stripped bare, Torne shook her head.

"You smell like the pigs, Torne," said Lucan, peering over.

Torne raised an eyebrow _– the things children say …_

"Do I really smell?"

"Yes," said Fulcinia, who had watched this exchange with amusement. "And if Lucan can smell you, so can others. Get up Torne, and come with me."

Fighting the urge to push Lucan down into his bed, Torne followed Fulcinia out of the caravan. The sting of the cold air made her cheeks flush, and everywhere, Torne glanced nervously at the remaining Marius' men who were grouped around fires, sharpening swords and swigging from waterskins.

She was brought to a bigger caravan where two large wooden baths were filled with water. Torne eyed it warily.

"You look as if you're about to drown," said Fulcinia who was bustling about, preparing towels. "No-one is here, Torne. You can take your clothes off."

Torne simply looked at Fulcinia with a pained expression

"I cannot …"

"There's not a person around," said Fulcinia, now aligning some lotions, "dear me. Do you want me to undress you myself?" She turned sharply and strode to Torne, impatiently moving aside her threadbare tunic but the younger girl slapped her hand away, her eyes suddenly fierce.

"I trusted you!"

"And so you should!" said Fulcinia, equally angry, "I only want you clean, Torne. Otherwise your cuts will become infected and you could become ill again. I will not have you in that state, not under my care. Now undress, and get in that blasted tub or I will ask Dagonet to dump you in it!"

Torne could find no argument for this.

Reluctantly, she stripped and washed herself. It felt divine to be so clean, but her wounds were exposed in sharper-relief.

Fulcinia luckily said nothing, but Torne sensed the Roman Woman's horror. Finally, when she was dry, Fulcinia leant her a dress, a cloak and a pair of sturdy boots.

"Wouldn't want a creature like you die from the cold," Fulcinia murmured, eyeing Torne closely.

Torne smiled thinly, fondling her hair which was now a sheet of golden silk, free from mud, twigs and blood.

"I think you should get some rest," said Fulcinia, who was still watching Torne.

Torne merely nodded, unsure of what to say. She wanted to express her gratitude upon feeling so clean, and healed by this woman's kindness (so unlike the people of Rome). She resorted to a nod, and left the caravan. The air was cool against her scrubbed face and young snow crunched beneath her feet. Her mind felt heavy from lack of sleep, yet her thoughts were oddly clear – not clouded with fear or confusion. Old nightmares seemed long suppressed, as if vanishing into the star-ridden sky and beyond.

She had been rescued, but what was left for her?

She had no hope in returning. Her homeland was forsaken … the Romans were leaving, and the Woads were growing more impatient ... more daring to cross Roman lines into Britain. But who was her enemy? Nobody knew who she was ... they couldn't know ... they just couldn't ...

"Wandering off, are we?"

She turned, and dissected Lancelot sitting lethargically against a tree nearby. His hands were clasping a dark, round object in his hands.

"No," she muttered, noting how dry her throat was. Lancelot smirked.

"I'd get back to the caravan, Torne."

She paused, gazing at the ground. She was tired. "I'm getting there …" Lancelot stood, and Torne noticed him stuff the black object out of sight. "What is that?" she asked him. He looked at her with dark eyes.

"A trinket from my homeland in Sarmatia." He stood, pulled it from his tunic and handed it to her. It was a hewn, slightly weathered rat but Torne eyed it thoughtfully.

"What does it resemble?"

Lancelot smirked. "The gods." He then glanced at her. "But I do not know of you. Are you … Roman?" he laughed to himself, dark eyes glinting with mirth. "Saxon? You're foolish enough to wander aimlessly around the camp, as they do into Britain."

Torne's insides turned cold. "I'm a Briton," she said. She placed the rat into his hands. "A Briton through and through."

Lancelot hesitated, looking whether or not to press her. Instead, he grinned. "Very well, milady."

She sniffed, and turned to go. Then she felt rather childish. She whirled. "I just want to say … thanks," she mumbled, as snow fell from the sky. Lancelot's grin faded. He eyed her closely, and Torne gazed at the floor. "For … for killing that man." Feeling awkward, she bid the Knight goodnight and walked swiftly towards the other caravan.

Her cheeks felt oddly flushed, and she knew it wasn't from the cold. Damn it, she thought, the man was insufferable but he still deserved a more than mere thanks for saving her. But then again … Dagonet had tended to her wounds … he'd looked after her. Yes. She owed the giant a lot more …

Suddenly, something caught her eye. A flash of blue. How strange ...

Ignoring her tiredness, she walked swiftly to the trees; her golden hair trailing behind her. She had seen something that was odd … out of place …

The wood was eerily silent. Snow fell to the ground, but nothing stirred behind the trees, as she looked around …

Perhaps it was a bird … she thought, when she gazed at the trees … or a squirrel … yeah, perhaps it was a –

A hand grabbed her by the mouth and pinned her to the ground. She saw a swell of blue skin, and breathed in the scent of woodsmoke.

"Now," a voice uttered in an accent, she had long-forgotten. "What have we here?"

* * *

**yeah you know what you have to do!! .... review! :D pretty please! I've got a packet of custard creams to hand out :D**


	4. Do You Trust Me?

Oh my goodness! Thanks guys for the reviews, you keep me going! Hope this chappie is ok! Please review!

Chapter Four. 

She was thrown to the ground, a blade to her throat. She squirmed but somebody held her arms and legs.

"Move again, and we'll gut you like a pig," sneered a voice in her ear. "Here … now …"

"Enough," spoke another. It was softer, calmer and oddly familiar. Torne saw a pair of pallid legs then the long, thin face of a man. He had scruffy dark hair and pale eyes.

She stopped moving.

"Move your hand," he said stoically to a man whose face she couldn't see. The other sat on his haunches and gazed at her. "Remember me?"

Torne's eyes widened. She nodded … of course she remembered him … with a thrill of horror; she noticed the markings on his arm … _the scraping of a dull blade_. "Y-you …" she breathed. "What are you doing here?"

The man smiled. "To find you. Did you think you could outrun us?"

She didn't answer. Once, this man had been her friend, he had helped her escape … the light in his once bright eyes had faded, yet she felt brave. For all her scars, this man did not scare her.

"Let me go, Leofric," she said. "Arthur will find I am gone."

To her surprise, Leofric smiled. "Not till the Saxons find him first," he glanced at the woods. "Yes, they are near. I told them. They outnumber Arthur, his Knights and the villagers 20 to 1. On the morrow, there will be a massacre, and you shall be taken back to where you belong."

"I trusted you," Torne said, sadness in her voice. The two other men laughed unpleasantly. She ignored them. "They hit you because they found out –" she eyed the marks on Leofric's blue arm. "Now you are a traitor." Leofric snarled and seized her throat but Torne stared at him, eyes watering. "You're a coward."

She was hit over the face, and she felt blood spurt from her nose. Next, she heard the yell of more voices and the pound of feet.

She looked round; the large form of Dagonet, Lancelot and Tristan tore through the woods. The two other men had been shot by a single arrow, and only Leofric remained poised over Torne's form. Before the Knights could reach her, he threw a dagger at Dagonet (who ducked) and scarpered like a ghost.

"Follow him!" bellowed Dagonet to Tristan as Lancelot hurried to Torne. She was shaking. "Kill him!"

Torne looked up at Lancelot, aghast. "I –" he put a finger to her lips.

"_What the hell is going on, woman?" _he hissed angrily, seizing her shoulders. "WHY ARE - ? I've had _enough!"_"

Torne broke down.

"You don't know!" she wailed, slapping Lancelot away. "Nobody knows! I –"

"Lass," Dagonet swooped from nowhere and placed his cloak on her shoulders. "Who are these men?"

He looked at the corpses of Leofric's companions. Torne's lip trembled. "W-Woads," she whispered. It was a lie, of course but her identity could not be exposed – until – Tristan crept from the trees, his eyes furious.

"You find him, Tristan?" Lancelot got up. The scout shook his shaggy head.

"No. his tracks are … untraceable. Apart from …" his looked at Torne's ragged form and the gashes visible beneath her dress, and the gashes upon the corpses on the floor. "… Those markings. Torne is a marked woman."

All three Knights stared at the blonde girl, and she dissolved into more sobs.

------

"She's in no fit state to speak, Lancelot!"

"She needs to be questioned!"

"What for? An attack by some Woads? _What is there to be explained?"_

"There's more to it, Fulcinia! Things that even _I _don't understand!"

Torne heard the angry voices outside the caravan. Suddenly, there was an angry swing of the door and Lancelot's furious face was seen, with Fulcinia looking equally angry over his shoulder.

"Answers," he said to Torne. "Now. Did you know those men?"

Torne sat up quickly, thinking quickly about what Leofric had said. If she told Lancelot, then the villages and Arthur would be warned about the Saxons – but knowing that scout of his, their presence will be soon be discovered – but it was because Leofric the Saxons had traced Arthur and the villagers and the reason why Leofric had teamed up with these invaders was because of her. Leofric was hunting her, just as the Saxons were hunting Arthur.

"No, Lancelot. I did not know them," she lied.

Lancelot growled and hit the caravan wall. Fulcinia grabbed his arm. "Enough," she ordered, dark eyes gleaming. "Out. Torne needs rest!"

Lancelot left. Fulcinia turned back to Torne, looking very cross indeed.

"Next time you wander off again, I will strap you to Arthur's horse!"

----

She awoke, again, to more shouts and thought that Leofric had returned. But when she looked out of the caravan, she saw Marius lying dead on the floor, Dagonet standing over him with a sword, Lucan cowering behind him, and Arthur shouting at Marius' soldiers. Torne shuddered … the very soldiers who had tried to rape her … still, she was very glad the detestable Roman was dead. At least something good had happened.

It was down to the Woad woman, Guinevere. Torne never spoke to her; she was unnerving, despite her looks.

Taking Dagonet's cloak from the caravan wall, she stepped outside.

Lancelot was smiling at Guinevere. "I see your fingers are better."

The Woad woman merely smiled. Torne scowled. Shrugging, she silently helped Fulcinia prepare the caravan for travelling.

She walked in silence beside the caravan as they all travelled, the weather getting colder and wilder. Trees passed, and Torne nervously thought she saw flashes of blue. A horse rode past, and Torne recognised Dagonet.

"Do you want your cloak?" she asked him hoarsely. Dagonet smiled slightly from his steed. "Keep it, you look pale as death anyhow."

With a small laugh, he cantered ahead. And Torne actually felt herself smile.

However, it faded when the procession turned a cliff and they came across a large, ice lake. There was no way across - any passages were blocked by large, steep mountains. Torne saw Arthur consult his Knights, as they nervously progressed across the mantle (creaking slightly) when everybody heard it –

_Bum bum bum _

Saxon drums. Guilt and fear tore through her… they were here … they had found them.

Torne tucked back her blonde hair away, as Arthur talked with his Knights.

"We fight," she heard him say.

The smiles, nods and the unloading of weapons was enough to confirm her dreaded answer. But it would be just seven Knights against a whole army of Saxons! It was madness! But if the villagers kept going, the Saxons would keep following …

She watched as Lancelot readied his bow, stretching its yew, and of the corner of his eye she saw him look at Guinevere, who was also fighting. Dagonet was speaking to Lucan.

She approached him; guilt soaring through her it was painful.

"Dag," she began. He turned, and she swallowed. "I just want to say …" he watched her warmly. But what could she say? Dagonet seemed to accept this and hugged her briefly.

"Stay alive, Torne. That's what you're fit for."

"Only at your hands." It was true. "You're a –a gifted healer."

He smiled. "Much better than the use of a warrior, but I fight for Arthur."

Torne stared at the ice, hardly contemplating that he was seconds away from fighting a hoard of brutal Saxons. She couldn't' stay … she couldn't run … otherwise Leofric would find her … but if she stayed, it would take him longer.

"I have to go." Squeezing his hand, she turned to leave with the caravans and villagers. And as she boarded, Dagonet, Lancelot and the Knights disappeared beyond a cliff.

**Yeah yeah, I implore yet again! Please review! The custard have all been eaten, but who likes Bakewell tarts? :D**


	5. No More Tears

Hey thanks so much everyone! Your comments are invaluable! This chapter's a bit longer, so I hope you enjoy it! Please review!

Chapter Five

They arrived at Hadrian's Wall too soon. Torne was wrapped tightly in Dagonet's cloak, staring blankly at the caravan's wall. Lucan was oddly quiet too, but he was close Dagonet, so it was unsurprising. Torne watched him closely, cradling his small arm. Fulcinia was watching too; but she was immersed in quiet conversation with her son Alecto.

When the procession of villagers entered through some large doors, the elder woman sat beside Torne.

"You'll be safe here."

Torne looked away. The woman was right … for now.

"Yes …"

"You have any family?"

Torne glanced up at her, feeling an odd leaden feeling in her stomach. _The fires and yells of men … the decay of death stanching the air …_ _butchered limbs … _

"No," she whispered.

Fulcinia stroked her hair. Torne thought she was about to speak, but the woman got up and sat beside her son, who was sipping some wine.

- - - -

For the rest of the journey to the heart of the fort, Torne slipped into a deep torpor of guilt and misery, her mind conjuring horrific scenes, involving Lancelot and Dagonet. Had they succeeded the impossible battle? Had Arthur, legendary Commander of Rome and Britain been hewn to the ground and now lay a bloody corpse beneath the lake?

_No … said a voice in her head … don't think like that …_

But it was hard.

It was because of Leofric, the Saxons had found Arthur, and the reason why Leofric had helped them, was because he had followed her there …

She had quashed all niggling thoughts that Leofric was hunting her – even when Lancelot had found her. She battled the decision that if she stayed with Arthur, she will be protected and easier to hide from Leofric, but … that would put Arthur and the others in danger as well …

_Too late now, _spoke a snide voice in her head, _the Saxons have them cornered … _

She closed her eyes and fell into an uneasy sleep.

-- - -

Fulcinia nudged her, and Torne groggily descended the caravan, her nerves jangling with fear and guilt when Arthur was nowhere to be seen in the courtyard she was in.

She was momentarily distracted, as she observed her new surroundings; they _very _different to what she was used to … stone, grey pillars supported the buildings. She shuddered; they felt like a cage.

Suddenly, there was a disruption of noise. Some tall gates clanked open, and with a vicious jolt of her heart, Torne saw Arthur and his Knights ride through the gates.

She searched for Dagonet.

"Dag!" she called, "Here, you can have your cloak –"

But Dagonet was not among the Knights, whose expressions were very grave. Lancelot glared at her, as he rode past.

"Dag?" she whispered, more to herself. Her insides quivered unpleasantly, but then she saw Lucan give a cry. He ran past to a cart in the courtyard. A limp hand was dangling beneath a blanket … a large, blue-tinged hand …

Torne stared. She turned very cold, and walked, as if in a dream, to the cart.

No … it couldn't be … no … _no … _

Guinevere hovered nearby, but Torne ignored her. She stared with Lucan at Dagonet's body, numb with shock. The man who had healed her … the man who had wanted peace, but fought out of loyalty, had fathered Lucan … such a good man …

_And it was all her fault … _

She barely considered the elaborate, sordid Bishop greeting the stony-faced Arthur, nor heard Fulcinia calling her name, nor saw Lancelot follow her with his dark eyes - she fled the courtyard, out onto the streets – her face stained with tears.

-- - -

Grief and guilt were a painful mixture. It seemed to pierce her body like a thousand knives, screaming its accusations.

_She had been so selfish … so selfish. _

She sat atop one of the grassy knolls within the fort, and had watched Arthur bury his friend from a distance. When early evening came, did she leave to wander the streets … avoiding Fulcinia, Arthur and everyone else. Her thoughts had gone haywire, thinking wildly as to where Leofric was now … if he was free, then he would come to the fort – he knew she would stay in its walls … only to be protected. He knew that she would put others in danger, before she was taken back to –

She heard voices from another street. Slipping into the shadows of an alleyway, she saw Fulcinia walk past with Alecto.

"Have you seen, Torne?"

"No, mother," Alecto replied. "She seemed upset by Dagonet's death … but …"

"Let her grieve," Fulcinia responded. She wiped her eyes. "' Tis a sad day, my son. Come, we must prepare to leave."

"For Rome?" the boy enquired.

"Yes … it is dangerous here. The Saxons are coming."

Torne froze. So, the woman had a choice. Perhaps, she, Torne could leave with her? Sail all the way to Rome, and then continue her travels.

No … that would put Fulcinia in danger as well. She was a good woman.

With a painful throb of guilt, Torne knew there was only one thing left to do … _she would give herself up to Leofric. _She wiped her eyes, and silently exited through a small door which led to the grounds. A cruel wind skinned her hands, and lashed her bedraggled blonde hair.

Sobbing, she reached the Knight's graveyard and came across Dagonet's roughly dug grave.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, stroking the soil. "You were so kind to me. It's my fault. You – you said that staying alive was what I'm fit for. But it's not – I deserve to be dead. Not you," she clutched his cloak and kissed it. Then hung it from his sword, and stood.

The trees seemed to beckon her …

Sobbing hysterically, she staggered towards them, and screamed wildly; "LEOFRIC! LEOFRIC! HERE I AM! COME AND TAKE ME!" a few birds fluttered away in alarm, but nobody answered her call – no crunch of a twig.

Frustrated beyond belief, she screamed again; tears disrupting her words. _"LEOFRIC! COME OUT YOU COWARD! YOU TRAITOR!"_

Nothing.

The sky was turning blood-red, slanting through the trees, She stood seething, too distraught to care … listening hard …

"What are you doing?"

She yelled in shock.

Standing behind her, was not Leofric, but Lancelot. His hands were raised.

"What are you doing, Torne?" he asked, in a surprisingly gentle voice. "Why are you shouting?"

Torne gulped. She walked to him. "My fault … all my fault …" she gasped.

Lancelot gazed at her, and held her shaking wrists. "Are you going to tell me why you are out here?"

Torne knew he was softening his act … to gain answers … but answers he would get … anything to cleanse her lethal, bubbling guilt.

"I'm – I'm – I'm calling for Leofric," she said, as tears slid down her face.

"Whose Leofric?"

"The man who fled."

Lancelot wiped her cheeks roughly. "So you did know those men?" his tone was calm, but his eyes flashed. "You lied."

Wishing that a sword could stab away the sheer guilt, Torne nodded. "Yes, I lied …" she pressed her head to his shoulder, but he pushed her away. "I'm sorry …"

"So …" Lancelot began, anger in his words. "What did he want?"

"He's looking for me."

"Why?"

Torne wiped away more tears. The late afternoon sunshine shone upon Lancelot's face, turning his black hair, chestnut.

"I – I – I escaped a large sect of Druids, far in the North – they – they tortured me –" she indicated the gashes beneath her chest. "For I was a stranger to them. Until, one time, they finalised my death. They pushed me atop a large cliff where rituals human sacrifices are carried out, and asked me to jump. They – they thought I could fly – it was a test. If I could fly, then I was a cursed being, if I could not, then I would be killed and sent as a sinner to their Underworld."

Lancelot stared at her with his stormy, dark eyes. His expression was hard to read, but his hand clenched her shoulder tightly. "A – a stranger you say?"

She hesitated; her heart suddenly pounding with a new emotion: nerves.

"A stranger, yes. I – I came from the South."

Another lie. Her insides squirmed.

Lancelot looked most confused. "So … the Druids –"

"I was travelling with some – some villagers," Torne invented wildly, tears now tracking down her cheeks. Flashes of fire, screams and shouts ripped through her. She looked up at Lancelot. "We were tracked … none were spared. The Druids took me back to their small island in the North and punished me." Suddenly, Lancelot let go of her arm and began to walk away. Hurt, Torne ran after him. "Look at me, Lancelot! I wanted to escape! Leofric, a member of the Druids helped me! He was my friend! But when the Druids found out, they punished him! The same torment I withstood!"

Lancelot's eyes were burning. "Why did you not speak of this before?"

"I was afraid."

She broke off. A wind caressed her hair. The sky was now a purplish grey, and the beacons from the Wall glowed brightly in the distance. The faint murmur of peasants drifted over, as they wended back home.

Torne looked miserably up at Lancelot. "Tis my fault Dagonet is dead," she whispered. "Leofric knew I was with Arthur. He told informed Saxons where he was. He betrayed his own people."

Lancelot looked at her. A strange, wild creature was she … half-dead in the woods when he found her … hair like wheat, eyes the colour of rain …

He pitied her. And valued her bravery.

"For a long time, you ran to save yourself," he muttered, "it is the only thing you have known."

Torne's face relaxed. "Yes."

"But the Saxons would have found Arthur, with or without Leofric's treason. They have skilled scouts of their own. We can't help that now – come," he paused, "- come to the fort. Stay there."

He reached down and wiped her face - more softly this time. "No more tears."

Without another word, they walked back to the fort in silence. Darkness had fallen like a spell around them, but when they reached the streets there was uproar. Villagers ran past, yelling, panicking – calling for family names, tarrying horses, mud skidding from their hooves. Lancelot shot Torne a look, but even she was confused. They ascended a large stone wall, where one of the Knights called Lancelot's name:

"Lancelot!"

Lancelot ran over, prising himself from Torne. They both looked over the wall, and saw, to Torne's sheer horror, a whole Saxon army; their bonfires burning brightly in the darkness.

**Phew! Well I'm officially drained from writing this! :D Was it OK? Poor Dag, sorry but It's key that he is killed off. Sorry :( **

** Please review! **


	6. Confusion

Another chapter for you all my lovelies. Thanks to ALL my reviewers. Please review!

ツ

Chapter Six

Torne's eyes widened, reflecting the dim firelight. She felt Lancelot move, as Arthur ascended the steps. He too glanced at the Saxon army, then his Knights.

"Knights, my journey with you must end here. May God go with you."

Swallowing his emotions, he turned on his heel and walked away. Lancelot looked angry; he swept past Torne, and ran down the steps after his commander.

Torne heard his shouts. She made to go after him, when somebody stopped her. It was Guinevere.

"Don't," she whispered, dark eyes glimmering.

Torne shrugged her off.

"He's hurt."

"I know." The Woad woman, stared at Torne closely. "You must come with me."

Mistrust filled Torne – this woman unnerved her. She was the daughter of a magician – Merlin – a shaman … dark, dangerous magic similar to the Druids.

"Why must I come?" enquired Torne sharply.

Guinevere pursed her lips, and forced Torne along the wall. "Because, you are no mere stranger."

Her insides quivered. "What would you know?" She prised herself from Guinevere; they both stood in a deserted parapet. The Woad observed Torne with her strange dark eyes; she looked tall and ghostly in her Roman attire.

"Those gashes," she eyed Torne's chest. "Are marks by a treacherous Druid tribe. My father knows of them. They mark their victims specifically – for different reasons." She searched Torne's face closely. "You should be dead."

Torne's face worked. "You don't know what you're talking about!" she snapped, half-frustrated and angered for reliving her past twice this evening, especially with a Woad. "I … I … was attacked by a wolf!"

She turned to leave. But Guinevere grabbed her.

"I know who hunts you," she hissed. "When the Druids realise that Leofric has failed to drag you to their island, they will come. They will kill," she paused, licking her lips. _"I know who you are."_

Torne stepped away, as if Guinevere had scalded her. "No, you don't."

With that, she stalked off into the darkness.

- - - -

Lancelot was in a bad mood – normally his notorious temper simmered out, but this night, anxiety prolonged his anger. So Arthur, his brother in arms, was staying on this wretched land? Where the weather was as predictable as a woman's mood? To fight an army of blood-thirsty Saxons, camped on his doorstep? It was insanity. Who would fight for Arthur? Farmers? Young lads?

He looked up from the table he was sitting at, and saw Guinevere glide past.

The Woads would fight for Arthur. Maybe. He snorted, and drained his fifth pint of mead. Tomorrow, he would be a free man. Tomorrow he would return home, and pick up the pieces. In a land where grass was green and larger than the ocean – a man could ride forever …

He got (staggered) to his feet. Vanora, the tavern owner watched him leave. He meandered down the muddy streets, uncaring that tonight, he was rip-roaring drunk. Uncaring, that tomorrow, he would nurse a hangover …

He climbed the fort wall, and stood, staring out at the Saxon bonfires, seriously considering shouting insults at them – or firing a flaming arrow. Perhaps Tristan might help him … He was about to sink to his feet, when a flutter of blonde hair caught his eye.

It was Torne. She was rushing along the parapet, looking white and strained.

"Hello," Lancelot said. She started.

"Oh …" Torne replied, sensing his drunkenness. She hesitated. "Hi."

"S'matter?" He balanced himself against the fort wall, but his gaze was steady - piercingly black. "Young chit like you shouldn't walk alone at night." He crooked a smile.

Torne returned it weakly. "Not that it stops me."

"No ..."

Silence. Save Lancelot's light breathing, and the distant Saxon voices. Slowly, Lancelot sank down the wall – his head still dizzy from booze. He beckoned a hand to Torne, who frowned.

"What?"

She felt awkward – desperate to get away. Lancelot bowed his head – kneading his temples. "I'm a ... I'm a free man."

"Oh …" Torne fought for words. "I … know."

"You're free."

Torne smiled sadly. Free? She had never been free. Hunted, perused, captured – her actions concluded consequences. Deadly consequences ...

"I'm not free."

Lancelot rubbed his eyes - weary, after years of obstinate war. Dragged to a foreign country, yet bound by friendship and loyalty to Arthur. A friendship that was frayed at the seams - that lay detemined in the invaders beyond Hadrian's Wall, feasting and gorging upon British soil. What awaited back home for Lancelot? Had his family perished from plague? Slaughtered by Romans - now dead and buried? Torne eyed the bowed, drunken man before her, and saw a faint glimmer of the boy hidden beneath the scarred body, behind the unfathomable black eyes ...

Suddenly, he grabbed her arm, interrupting her thoughts.

"What?" she hissed, no longer smiling. He pulled her more persistently. "Ow … what are you doing? You're drunk!"

He smirked at her, eyes gleaming. "You alone tonight?"

"Sorry?"

She stared … his manner had changed alarmingly.

"Do you have a … a man?"

Fuming, Torne stood up, but Lancelot grabbed her again - softer.

"I'm sorry," he said, eyes pleading. "Look. I'm just …"

"Pissed?"

"Yes." He looked rueful, but his eyes were agleam. His expression unfathomable. "Tomorrow ..." he began, a grin curling his lips, "... I ride to Sarmatia," he paused, looking up at her. "You can come with me, if you like."

Torne's anger faded. But she did not smile, suddenly recalling the memory of a dark, tall unarmed stranger in a frozen forest. Surprisingly gentle. Helping her … yet she brought a burden of danger.

"I'm staying here. Like you said."

Lancelot searched her face intently, no longer smiling. Idly, he fondled with a bedraggled strand of her pale hair and kissed it. Then, he pulled her roughly onto his lap, facing him. With gentle hands, he caressed her arms. Goospimples pricked in the piercing night air.

"Are you sure you want to stay?" he whispered, his breath coming out in puffs.

Torne nodded, but no sooner, Lancelot had kissed her lips soundly. She could pull away … but her arms had a mind of their own – wandering up Lancelot's neck, tugging the hair at the nape of his neck … and down the warmth of his back .... he felt so good, like – like a diluged memory from long ago ...

Heart hammering, she withdrew. "I must go."

Lancelot got to his feet, quicker than she anticipated. "Why?"

She didn't answer, eager to be away from this unpredictable, brooding drunken Lancelot as much as possible.

_Yes, he was only drunk. You only felt lust. And lust will clog your thoughts._

Tomorrow was an important, fateful day.

* * *

Yeah, I will get to the battle v soon! Next chapter! I just hate rushing things :D


	7. Courage

Okies, you find out more stuff on Torne in this chapter :) a big n' V grateful thanks to my reviewers – this story wouldn't be here without you're supportive feedback. Please review!!

Chapter Seven

_Her heart thudded, sensing the man behind her. Gently, he stroked her neck and kissed her cheek. _

_She smiled with bliss. "You're not supposed to be here."_

_He squatted, peering at her with bright grey eyes. "I know," he said. "What Aelfric doesn't know won't kill him."_

_Torne suppressed a laugh. She stroked the man's stubbled chin, contouring his young yet chiselled face. She stood, allowing the young man to kiss her soundly – caressing her body with skilful hands._

"_Kill you, more like," she whispered. ""He'll __hack your body to pieces – feast it to his dogs, then burn it – casting it to sea."_

"_The man has a poor aim."_

_Torne blinked back tears. "But a heart of metal."_

* * *

She was safe behind Roman Walls, but Torne felt oddly helpless when the Roman soldiers marched from the fort, the next day. They snailed up the grassy knolls, like a red and silver caterpillar. She had distanced herself from Lancelot, Arthur and the Knights, knowing that she must stay and witness the Saxon battle. She would not run like a flayed animal. Surrendering herself to Leofric had given her courage – it was her only defence.

She crouched between two bushes, blessed with a clear view of Lancelot and the Knights leaving.

_So, he was really going …_ back to his green home-land. He, who saved her. Perhaps, his dark eyes had followed her golden head leaving the fort … and now she sat, alone, upon this knoll with nothing … nowhere to run … no-one to turn to … She felt sick with emptiness.

A yell interrupted her thoughts; the Saxon army were regrouping and gathering their weapons.

* * *

Cerdic waited patiently for Leofric – the man ran from the fort, flushed with feat.

"The Roman Auxiliary has left the wall," he said.

Cynric raised his eyebrows. "And the horsemen?"

Leofric grinned, lighting up his bright blue eyes. "Leading a caravan away from the fort. They're running south...with their tails between their legs."

"So there will be no resistance," Cynric murmured.

A stocky, brutish-looking man with wild pale hair and ruddy cheeks, suddenly grabbed Leofric by the throat. "And still," he snarled, spraying spit. "I am without my _wife._ I thank the gods those Druids had not killed her. I want to strangle her myself." He threw Leofric to the floor, who spluttered and gasped.

"That you shall, my Lord." he rasped.

Cerdic turned stoically to the stocky man. "Peace, Aelfric. You will get your chance. Arthur has her."

"I want his head on a stick," growled Aelfric, Cerdic's brother.

Cerdic's lips smiled. He turned to Leofric, his face stoic. "We're going to slaughter your people," Leofric said nothing. Blue eyes unsurprised. Cerdic's smile widened. "I think you should watch, Leofric. Your tree might be a good place."

"Upon the hill!" cried a Saxon.

Leofric and the three Saxons turned. There was Arthur, astride his steed, clad in Roman battle attire.

Cynric lost control, and mirrored his Uncle's temperamental actions. "A single knight!" he hissed, _"Didn't you just say they were gone?_ What is this, a ghost?"

Leofric peered into Cynric's livid, scarred face. "One man," he grovelled. "A tiny fly on the back of your... great army."

"Scum," Aelfric sneered, fingering his axe.

"Who is he?" enquired Cerdic.

Leofric prised himself from Cynric, smiling wryly. "Arthur …"

Cerdic exchanged looks with his brother. "Arthur … ah."

* * *

Arthur spied the white flag flapping from the field. _So they Saxons want to parley? _He thought, but what for? They thrive on blood. Still, he rode down the knoll and slowed his white stallion to a grudging trot. The fort doors opened. Smoke wafted past, enhancing his majestic appearance astride his steed – the last shard of Rome's power before the grubby savagery of the Saxons.

He trotted over, sword drawn. Hazel eyes intent. He spied three blonde Saxons staring at him – the tall one spoke.

A sneer lifted Cerdic's beard. "Arthur. Hm. Wherever I go on this wretched island I hear your name. Always half-whispered, as if you were a... god," he cuffed his horse. "All I see is flesh, blood. No more god than the creature you're sitting on."

Arthur quelled his anger. "Speak your terms, Saxon."

"Here're _my_ terms, Arthur," growled Aelfric, his cheeks reddening. "You have something of mine. Torne. My wife. I heard she's in your keeping. She does not belong there. Infidelity goes unpunished." He clenched his axe, staring furiously up at Arthur with tiny eyes "She will abide the customs she took an oath too and suffer the consequences!"

Arthur eyed the man, and saw no pity in his heart. If he survived this battle, that girl had a _lot _of explaining to do. Briton or not, the girl was a victim and he always protected the innocent … "Torne is a Briton now," he said coldly.

"Treachery!" boomed Aelfric, "_cowardice!_ This is not just, Artorius!"

Cerdic clamped a hand on his brother's arm. He spoke to Arthur. "The Romans have left you. Who are you fighting for?"

Arthur's eyes were molten green. "I fight for a cause beyond Rome's or your understanding."

Aelfric shuffled restlessly, as Cerdic felt a leap of anger. Ungrateful dog. "Ah," he whispered. "You come to beg a truce. You should be on your knees."

Arthur flourished his sword, but Cerdic merely glanced at the blade. "I came to see your face, so that I alone may find you on the battlefield. And it would be good for you to mark my face, Saxon, for the next time you see it; it will be the last thing you see on this earth."

With that, the Roman turned his steed and cantered through the large, smoking doors. Cerdic watched him go, half-amused, half-furious.

"Ah, finally, A man worth killing," said he, as Aelfric laughed cruelly. "Prepare the men for battle."

* * *

Torne shifted from her hiding place, retreating to the forest outskirts. Smoke billowed in the distance, opposite the fort. Arthur had obviously spoken to the Saxons … and to Aelfric. With a surge of panic, she wondered if Arthur would kill her, now that he knew she was a … a … She couldn't think it.

She descended a muddy bank, hitching her shift, when her eyes widened in shock. She had come across a swarm of blue – innumerable Woads streaked with tattoos and armed with bows and swords, hiding in the trees.

And standing before her, was Guinevere.

"Arthur knows, Torne," she said bluntly, dark eyes glittering. "You must stay."

Torne said nothing. Guinevere sensed her sheer panic. She smirked. "He won't decapitate you. You're more of a danger to yourself."

Torne scowled. The Woad was right. She was staying. But for what? What was left for her?

Reading the other girl's pain, Guinevere's face softened, as she fastened her quiver. "You should go back to the fort, Torne. We're," she paused "… slewing your kinsmen."

Somehow, this news didn't upset Torne. Something inside her snapped. "I care not!" she blurted. "Kill Aelfric and I honour you. He destroyed my world."

A few Woads glanced at her impassioned outburst. Guinevere turned, then handed Torne a short sword in response.

But the woman backed away. "No," she said, very firmly.

"Why not?"

Torne hesitated. By the casual tone in Guinevere's voice, the Woad could have been asking why she hated the latest tavern food! Not fight to the death. She had _never _used a sword, save killing a few Druids with a dagger, before she was captured. But even then, their gawking faces haunted her dreams - blood-spattered and broken ...

"I just can't … I – I haven't the courage." She felt childish to say this, before a woman where war was something of a daily task.

"You were willing to return to Leofric –" Guinevere, pressed extending the sword. "I saw you. That's bravery – as well as foolish."

Torne snapped - sick and tired of being thought of a weak, pathetic girl. _"Foolish?"_ she seethed angrily, "I didn't have a choice Guinevere!" Did the woman not realise the guilt and grief she felt for Dagonet's death? All because Leofric had helped the Saxons? "I wasn't trying to be brave or - or noble! Just to stop Leofric from hunting me down, or killing people for information! I have been hunted for years." Hot, angry tears pricked her eyes, and she shamefully wiped them away. "Running has been my only choice. There's nowhere to go. This isn't my land. I - I ..."

"Fight," Guinevere said in a gentle voice, who had watched Torne closely. "Lancelot values your courage - and so do I. Now fight. Woman or not, fight for what has been lost, and what will be gained through honour. Willing martyrs …" she glanced at Torne, "cannot prevail wars."

Torne reluctantly accepted the sword – it was strange and cold in her palm. She had no skills, save courage. She thought of Aelfric, the Druids … Leofric … how she had lain sobbing at their feet. Scarred and defeated. She thought of Lancelot … he would join Arthur … and fight to the death.

"Very well," she said, fixing Guinevere with a hard, Saxon-glare. "I will fight."

But to what end, she couldn't tell.

**Please review everyone! :) **


	8. You Saved Me

Hi Guys sorry for the long wait! But I've had some free time recently, so I decided now would be a perfect time to update another chapter :) Hope you like this next installment. PLEASE REVIEW! 

Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

The sword shook in Torne's hands. She bit her lip, trying to ignore the agonising screams. The terrible hell she would dive into. The thought of Lancelot made her stomach writhe in agony; was he alive? Had he survived thus far?

"Look, Torne," Guinevere suddenly whispered, dragging Torne from her painful thoughts. She stared through the trees and saw the charging Saxons. Her kinsmen.

Guinevere raised her eyebrows. "Now."

"What?" Torne asked.

"_NOW!" _

without warning, Guinevere and the Woads charged. "YYYYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!"

The sound was unearthly, and Torne was pushed along with the charging Woads. Her legs couldn't stop. Before her was a sea of blades and bloodthirsty men, hell-bent on savagery. The ground was sticky with blood.

She began to panic. All around her, Woads were being sliced and Saxons being butchered. "Noooo!" she cried, slashing her sword blindly about. A large Saxon man had pinned Guinevere to the ground. Torne immediately recognised him as one of Cerdic's generals, and instinctively ran up and stuck the sword in his back. He cried in pain, and Guinevere rolled free.

She cast Torne a look of admiration before running away.

Before Torne could decide what to do next, she heard a chillingly familiar voice from behind.

"Well, well, well," it said maliciously. "Torne with a sword."

Torne whirled and became face to face with Aelfric. Her blood ran cold at the sight of his leering grin and blood-stained axe.

"Y-you," she managed, fighting to keep the fright from her voice.

Aelfric grinned, revealing yellow teeth. "Me."

Torne's legs began to tremble; what match was she against a seven-foot, blood-thirsty Saxon? She clenched her sword and thought of Dagonet and her long-lost love … men who had died for the greater good. This thought gave Torne a tiny ounce of courage. The Saxon before her was evil. Pure evil. Not even his laughing face could sway her opinion.

"Don't be foolish," cackled Aelfric. "You think you can fight me?"

Torne said nothing. Aelfric was circling her now, as a wolf would its prey. She could almost smell his foul breath … feel his lingering gaze … the battle felt dream-like, unreal.

"No," she said, surprising herself. "I can try."

_"Try?"_ cackled Aelfric, drawing closer. He drew close, and turned her to face him. She trembled beneath his grasp, but her gaze was steady. How odd it felt to be so close to such a tyrant … he could crush her like a worm … and then- she spat in his face.

Enraged, the large Saxon bellowed an obscenity, and began to hack away blindly at the air. Torne screamed, and narrowly missed being decapitated if a nearby Woad hadn't pushed her head down. And before she could stand, her saviour was killed by Aelfric.

"Whore!" he bellowed, looking truly monstrous as he unstuck his axe from the Woad's belly. "You can't run!"

Torne was frozen with fear. She wanted to run, but running had always been cowardly. It was useless! An exasperated limbo! She stood with her mouth hanging slightly open … her sword pointing uselessly at the ground … this was it … this was the end …

She numbly felt Aelfric grab her by the throat, crushing her windpipe. His greasy, oily voice snarled in her ear …

"Better to die slowly. Better to die in my fist. Like a worm … like a weak, pathetic – uuuuuuuuuuuaaagh."

The Saxon warlord started to groan with pain. His grip slackened as a blade became visible in his chest, spraying Torne with blood. She screamed, and saw Lancelot standing above her. His face was stained with blood, and his armour cracked and broken.

"Torne!" he exclaimed angrily, "what – what are you doing here?" He looked utterly thrown. Not normal for a skilled warrior – especially on the battlefield.

Torne stood, fear pounding through her body as the reality closed in. "To fight," she replied, knowing her answer sounded useless.

It did. Lancelot looked as if he'd grown an extra head. "Are you out of your mind?" he yelled, "This is no place for you!"

Something inside Torne snapped. Aelfric had cornered her, and now she was being berated her like an imprudent child! By Lancelot! "How would you know!" she shrieked, catching Lancelot off-guard. "I have every right! You don't even know me Lancelot – don't you dare tell me to run!"

She cast him a long look, and the dark Knight couldn't meet her eyes. She pushed him in the chest. "I'm not leaving," she hissed, her face close to his.

Lancelot lost patience. He grabbed her arm and dragged her from a vicious duel between a Saxon and a Woad. "You have no idea," he retorted with ill-concealed anger. "If you want to act like a fool then -

Lancelot was about to finish, when his attentions caught sight of Guinevere struggling to fight a large Saxon several yards away. Torne saw that it was Cynric, Cerdic's son. Lancelot quickly glanced at Torne. He pursed his lips, and left her side, leaping deftly upon the back of an abandoned horse.

Torne felt like something had been ripped from her body. She stared numbly as Lancelot began to duel the skilled Saxon, narrowly missing deathly blows and whatnot. Now wasn't the time to comprehend Lancelot's anger – for the first time she felt real fear – a panic – a panic for Lancelot …

Her feet began to find their use, as she stared at Lancelot parrying more violent blows. He was losing. And Guinevere was powerless to help.

"Oi!" came a dangerous yell. Torne turned and saw a burly Saxon challenging her. He smiled at his opponent and swung back his sword – Torne moved, but the sword cut her arm. Luckily, (and by some divine saviour) the Saxon was killed by a misaimed arrow, leaving a clear gap for Torne to reach Lancelot.

The dark Knight had been beaten repeatedly, but remained standing. His twin blades were held firmly within steady hands, as Cynric lay on the ground. But as Lancelot turned away, Torne saw the sly Saxon reach for a crossbow … he aimed it towards Lancelot …

Torne ran out in front of Lancelot and the arrow from the crossbow landed firmly in her chest. The force of the blow, knocked to the floor. She dimly noted the swirling figures, the cold grass, the stench of blood and smoke … and someone saying her name … tapping her cheek …

"Torne …. Torne …"

Her eyelids felt heavy. All she wanted to do was sleep, but Lancelot was crouched beside her.

"Can you hear me?"

Torne nodded shakily.

"Why did you do that?" Lancelot asked. His voice was drawn and tired. Blood stained his handsome face.

"I don't know," Torne replied, a tear sliding down her filthy cheek. "Lancelot …" He looked at her. Torne fought all strength to remain conscious. The pain in her chest was growing stronger. "I- I – I ."

"I – what?"

"We …"

"We?"

"We can be ..."

She didn't know how to finish the sentence.

The pain in her chest intensified, and Torne fought out the last words before darkness consumed her. "You saved me." A shaky, white hand caressed his cheek then fell limply to the ground.

_OK OK PLEASE DON'T KILL ME! :D You wanna know what happens next with Torne, then you'll have to wait for chapter nine! :) PLEASE REVIEW! _


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